Page 41 of Cottage in the Mist (Time After Time #3)

“The cut-through to the pass is just beyond those rocks,” Frazier said. “’Tis very narrow, ye ken.”

“And you say it follows a burn?” Bram asked as they all pulled to a halt at the foot of the outcropping of rock.

“Aye, a wee wash o’ water. Although with the spring thaw it’ll be running higher than usual, I suppose.”

“Any reason that would be a problem?” Ranald asked Frazier.

“Nay. ’Tis too small a stream to bother the horses. And toward the bottom, where the burn falls from the rocks to form pools, the pathway widens so that we willna have to cross the water. The pass dumps us right in to Alec Comyn’s backyard.”

“Is there anywhere to camp along the way?” asked Iain, his eyes moving from the rocky slope to the sky. “If not, then we’d best make camp here. We’ve only got a few hours of daylight left.”

Frazier scratched his beard. “There’s a copse of birch about halfway along. ‘Twould be as good a place as any to camp for the night.”

“And it would mean being closer to Comyn’s holding at sunup.” Bram couldn’t keep the impatience out of his voice.

“Well, as much as I want to make the man pay for what he did to your father, I’ve got to be equally sure that we’re not rushing into this like angry fools,” Iain said.

Bram bit off his reply, clenching a fist as he tried to contain his frustration.

He’d always been a man of action, and so was aching for a fight.

Something to take the edge off his own guilt.

About Lily, about his father, about everything.

He felt as if he had no control, his life spiraling away from him without so much as a by your leave.

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle the challenges, but to do so, he had to meet them head on.

And all this prattle wasn’t getting him any closer to his enemy.

“You’re sure about this passage?” Ranald was asking, his cousin eyeing Frazier speculatively. “When was the last time you were up here?”

The older man shrugged. “’Twas last fall. Seamus and I went hunting.”

“For Comyn cattle?” Ranald asked, raising his brows.

“Ach, no.” Frazier shook his grizzled head. “No’ to say that it wasn’t tempting. But these old bones canna handle reiving. So we made do with smaller game. Pheasant and rabbits and such. Anyway, the point is the pass was clear then. As was the stand o’ birch.”

Bram looked to Iain and his cousin nodded.

“Best get to it then,” Ranald said, urging his horse forward. “Time’s a wastin’.”

An hour or so later they were climbing full out, single file, following the path of the rushing burn.

Water from the spring thaw sprang through gaps in the rocks, creating tiny waterfalls cascading down the craggy cliffs and swelling the stream with the runoff.

Clumps of gorse clung to the rocky scree.

In another few weeks, the mountains would be abloom, but for now everything was on the cusp, the predominate colors grey and green, leafy boughs of alder and birch blending in with the darker needles of the pines.

“We can make camp just around this bend,” Frazier called out, swinging around to face Bram, who had been riding just behind him. And true to the old man’s word, the trail widened, then disappeared as it was claimed by a grassy meadow ringed by a stand of birch.

“The trail continues o’er there.” Frazier pointed to the far side of the clearing as Ranald and Iain pulled abreast of the two of them.

Bram turned his attention to the opening just beyond the trees, then urged his mare forward, crossing the meadow and pulling to a stop again just at the head of the narrowing canyon.

“Bollocks,” Ranald grumbled as he reined in his horse. “We’ll no’ be going through that.”

It looked as if half the mountain had come crashing down, the great piles of stones that now blocked the pass seeming to mock them with their impenetrability.

Bram blew out a slow, frustrated breath. “I canna see any way around it either.” Both sides of the rock slide were flanked with rocky cliffs. The one on the right was covered with scree and stunted pines. The one to the left sheared off sharply, as if a mighty blacksmith had cleaved it in two.

“Looks as if it’s been that way a while,” Iain said as he and Frazier rode up beside them. “Look at the gorse growing amidst the rocks. And there’s more growing on the cliff face.”

“Must have happened this winter.” Frazier frowned. “’Twas clear when I was last here. I swear it.”

“No one doubts you, man,” Ranald said, his tone affable.

“And whether it was here or no’ doesn’t change the fact that we canna go this way now.

” Iain and Ranald exchanged a telling look, and Bram wondered for the first time if they’d been wise to put their faith in Frazier.

He was older even than Bram’s father. And though he seemed spry enough, there was always the possibility that his mind wasn’t as good as it had been.

A faded memory tugged at his brain. Something about Frazier. But that part of the conversation had been lost. It had been his father’s next words that had stuck with Bram. The guardsman had suggested that Seamus consult with his son.

“The day I need my son’s advice is the day I go to my grave,” his father had scoffed.

And Bram had stalked away in anger, his father’s words echoing in his ears.

Nothing he did was good enough for the old man.

Seamus refused to accept the fact that Bram was a man grown.

And a worthy one at that. Bram had more than proven it in service to both Moy and to his great uncle, Ian Ciar.

But Seamus had never acknowledged any of it. And now… he never would.

“I think the best thing is to make camp,” Iain was saying, the words pulling Bram’s thoughts back to the present. “And rethink our strategy.”

“From where I sit, we have only one option now,” Bram replied. “We hit the Comyns head on. Attack them at Tigh an Droma .”

“Aye, but by the time we manage to get there, Macniven will have surely made it back,” Ranald cautioned. “Which means they’ll know we’re coming.”

“And be more than ready for us,” Iain added.

“Then we should go now,” Bram said, scowling at his cousins. “Take them unaware. They’ll never expect an attack at night.”

“Ach, laddie, I’m afraid yer cousin is right.” Frazier shook his head, his expression apologetic. “The horses are tired. We canna push them further. Best we rest and make our move with first light.”

Bram opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again.

Frazier was right. To attack now would be foolhardy.

They needed a plan. And for that they needed time.

With a curt nod to Frazier and his cousins, Bram wheeled his horse around and rode back across the clearing.

It wasn’t their fault. They hadn’t caused the rock slide.

But it seemed as if even the mountains themselves were on the Comyns’ side.

Bram leapt down from his horse, handing the reins to one of Iain’s men, then strode off for the solitude of the woods that ringed the clearing.

They had to make plans, but first he needed time on his own.

Time to fight his demons. Bram had spent the bulk of his childhood alone, a motherless child, roaming wild over the countryside, he and Robby getting into all kinds of mischief.

He supposed they were lucky to have escaped without reckoning.

But in truth, his father hadn’t cared enough even to take him in hand.

It had only been when he’d gone to Moy and formed a friendship with his cousins that Bram had begun to believe he might have worth.

Like Bram, Iain’s father had never shown any feelings for his son.

And Ranald, a third son, had always felt the odd man out.

So the three of them had found common ground easily enough.

But even then, Bram had never felt as if he truly belonged.

Some part of him hungered for something more. Something that was only his.

Lily.

His heart clenched at the thought.

Lily, too, was alone in the world. And she belonged to him. Or she could have, if he hadn’t walked away. Pain and guilt combined with his frustration over the rock slide, the resulting anger sending him thrashing through the trees. Why must everything be so difficult?

He pushed aside a low hanging branch and moved deeper into the woods.

Quiet descended, all the noise from the men setting up camp behind him dying away.

Above him he could hear the twitter of birds, but beyond that there was only the rushing of the stream and the whisper of the wind through the leaves.

He knelt beside the burn, his mind tumbling with unanswered questions.

What if his uncle refused to accept that Bram wasn’t a traitor?

What if his father was never avenged? What if Ranald was right?

What if, thanks to Macniven, the attack on Alec Comyn’s holding proved to be a trap?

And most importantly of all, what if he never saw Lily again?

He dipped his hand into the water, remembering the vision by the fire.

Lily in the arms of another man. In his head, be believed Iain.

Katherine’s brother was not a threat. But in his heart?

If he were honest, he’d admit to a shred of doubt.

A smidgeon of fear. He’d thrown her away for the sake of his father.

What if she could never forgive him for that?

Or worse still, what if they were forever separated because of it?

He’d chosen vengeance over love. Surely that must be a mortal sin?

And yet, what choice did he have? He had nothing to offer Lily without clearing his name, and to do that he must face the Comyns.

’Twas a paradox of the very worst kind. Damned if he did—damned if he did not.

And what if his cousins were right? What if she had defied him? Come here on her own? How was he to protect her when he was here and she was God knows where? He slapped the burn with the flat of his hand, the water rippling in protest.